Golden Evening
by v1dya
Summary: Rewrite of Golden Afternoon. Someone wakes up not feeling quite like himself. Meanwhile, experts gradually become concerned over the increasingly erratic behavior of the world's most powerful hero...
1. Chapter 1

**Worm belongs to Wildbow. As for this plot, it is based on, though distinct from, my previous fic, Golden Afternoon. I recall one person commented that the choice of the protagonist there seemed rather arbitrary. I created this fic to try and write the same concept, but more reasonably paced, and based solely in the Worm Universe. Also, thanks Moka-girl (u/2097368) for suggesting this and providing feedback on my ideas for it.**

* * *

**8/25/10, ?**

I see everything and nothing at once, a torrent of unnameable colors, impossible scenes. I cannot tell if I was moving, can barely remember what it meant to move, can scarcely remember anything prior to this sensory overload. Time, inasmuch as it seems to be passing does nothing to make some of the visions more comprehensible, but I begin to be able to sort them, to put those which I can pry some meaning from in the 'forefront' of my 'vision'.

I fixate on my own form's trajectory in time, but this proves no more revealing. A golden figure, flying without direction, ambling through a small planetoid.

Is that me? I wonder. There is none of the familiarity which I seem to expect, if that were true.

_Yes_, something informs me. A silent voice, seemingly perfect in clarity, emanating from within. Part of me seems surprised by this, but another accepts it as par for the course.

_If I can receive answers so easily... then…_

One question above all has been impressing itself upon me. _What is my name? What am I called?_

_Zion_. The response to my first query comes quickly, but so does the second.

_Scion._

My grasp of the concept of a _name _seems inadequate; I had thought both of the questions were effectively the same.

The golden man's (my?) aim was to _do good_, _to help people_. Multiple, conflicting definitions of these terms bubble forth, with a slew of memories. A biped - _Kevin Norton_, striking at me ineffectually, yelling, babbling. I fixate on some of the words. Are they memories, or visions dredged directly from the past? I cannot remember why I should make a distinction.

Should I continue the task I have apparently been doing? I receive an answer, though it seems meaningless.

* * *

**?, Moments Earlier**

A collection of creatures, mostly bipedal and mostly imbued with a certain _something - _an arresting quality, drawing me in and informing me of things which shouldn't have been able to know, gather in in a complex. One, a _female_ in a _suit_, advances towards a still, horizontal, figure, directed by her _shard._ I comprehend these technical terms without remembering how I learned them.

The shard plots a course in service of it's bearer's goal. I observe this out of curiosity.

Its name comes naturally as well, as mysteriously as the rest. _Fortuna. _Again, a discrepancy, for it, -she-, is called _Contessa._

Monikers spill forth: _Eidolon, Rebecca Costa-Brown, Doctor Mother, Number Man. _Some of them have more than one name; others, especially those further from the scene, kept in confinement, have none at all.

The female separates the _unconscious _figure's head from it's body. The figure, which was a _male,_ sprays red fluid indiscriminately. None of the spectators seem affected by this spectacle, except for one, with a shard - the word _transposition_ suggests itself - that appears to be collapsing. None of its futures - many of the visions fall into place now, identifiable as such, show its survival.

The female's shard has functioned perfectly, though neither she nor anyone else present appears to realize this. Instead, they return to their work. They have been at it for years, and will continue in a high proportion of futures. The subdued biped's head separates and reattaches as my sight cycles through time. Something about its form draws me, just as most of the crowd's shards inspire revulsion, and Contessa's shard calls forth a sense of bemusement.

* * *

**8/25/10, Minutes Later**

The small quadruped expresses no signs of gratitude upon return to its larger, two-legged companion. The latter does, and expresses it verbally, even as the former scrapes at its skin with its claws. I recall seeking to accomplish such things, yet even then, it was unsatisfying, means to an end now lost.

* * *

**9/23/10, 3:23 AM EDT**

Two shards, both unrestricted, both reeking of something unnatural. One is borne by the other. They are both _humans_, the _primates_ which dominate this planet, but while one has and will be accepted as such by his peers, the other will experience this only rarely, due to external, shard-driven alteration.

His form, like my own, is metallic. But mine inspires awe amongst the locals, while his is misshapen to their eyes: not repulsive, but an eyesore. A symbol is _tattooed_ on him, arousing my curiosity.

My descent upon the scene triggers a response from virtually all nearby sentients. The only exceptions are several juveniles, not sufficiently mature to process their surroundings, as well as the metalloid shardbearer, who has been subdued.

The other shardbearer tries to flee, a rift between universes forming adjacent to him. I abolish it easily, and reach towards him, restraining him briefly. This is enough, as locals rush to the location, turning on my target for no reason other than my own apparent hostility towards him. The metalic biped is now cognizant of my presence. He cannot remember his own name, but he knows mine. Soon, he will dub himself Weld.

Something about his position is familiar.

* * *

**10/2/2010, 10:14 PM EDT**

It is the most populated city on this landmass, yet its shard count is lower than I expect. Its human count is lower too, as a girl with a shard has taken it upon herself to alter it by consuming several nearby civilians. My light bombards her as I descend, removing them from her stomach. They are mostly intact, which surprises me.

She emits a large roar, not at all what would be expected from her physical form, at least, the top half. Rushing forward, one of her lower mouths opens wide. Her companions, all with unrestricted shards, are paralyzed with horror. My powers sense no danger, however, and I am enveloped.

I sense greater distress from the shardbearers gathered outside, as the human in which I reside begins using her power. Golden men begin to pile up in the accumulated slurry of vomit at her feet.

They do not have whatever power it is that animates me. Perhaps it is because they are inexact copies, though that did not seem to impede any of the previous humans her shard operated on. The golden men lie still.

I burst through her stomach, upon remembering another command I had once obeyed. _Fight the monsters_. _Stop them_.

I hit her with a beam of golden light, following up a few moments later with shorter, concentrated blasts. Her wounds regenerate rapidly, but her rage is dimming, overwhelmed by the power of my attacks.

She has been thoroughly fought, I decide, so it is time for the next step. I send her plunging into the subterranean chamber below. She will be able to reach the surface in minutes, but by then, her desire to fight will have been subsided. Having fulfilled my directives, I fly off, tangentially aware of the confusion on the faces of the monster's companions. Their own destinies... I feel another burst of displeasure upon observing them. Though has lessened over the months, these unrestricted shards still inspire a certain distaste in me.

I ignore the question of their futures.

* * *

**10/16/10, 9:45 PM EDT**

The male and the female exchange words, most of which are meant to convey hostility. The female, unlike her companion, has a shard, untempered and mildly repulsive.

_Canary. Paige Maccabee. _The dichotomy between a human's name and what they are called no longer surprises me, yet in this case, she is called by both of those terms, though named by only one. Her shard is already acting on the male; there are few futures in which he will survive. My distaste for the shardbearer gives me additional motivation to move; I counteract its effects, an act which is second nature to me by now. I take an odd pleasure in capturing her, powerless, and I do not see, but _imagine _the act of crushing her, of separating that cursed shard from her…

The sensation is odd, appealing to a certain part of me and yet not consistent with my previous actions. I decide that, at the very least, this is not the place to reevaluate my plans. I release her, and depart, knowing both are too shocked to continue their skirmish.

Why am doing this? Again, I receive an incomprehensible reply. It feels less natural this time.


	2. Chapter 2

**1/10/11, 1:08 PM EDT**

The female's shard is in the process of attaching. Untempered, it will break her; futures of her drooling, insensate, as the shard exerts its power present themselves. She will drag whatever she can into her thrall, reveling in their enslavement, their suffering. Multiple impulses, some more closely resembling base instinct than anything else, motivate a move to avert this. The procedure is accomplished subconsciously, as if it is second nature to me. Now the shard is restricted, limited in power but also in danger.

Another impulse, from a place distinct from where the shard knowledge came, urges me forward. I travel fully into that reality, now physically adjacent to the subject.

A flash of light releases the newly-ensharded human - Taylor Hebert - from her confinement, simultaneously removing the inactive biological matter caking her. Her speech patterns correlate only weakly to those of the language she speaks. Of the quickly growing crowd of observers, only one other has a shard, and it is firmly established. I can sense my business here is concluded.

**2/24/2011, 6:56 PM AEST**

Humans, with their strange passion for names, have dubbed the settlement below Canberra. Likewise, the Endbringer about to materialize is known as the Simurgh. This is not what the creature calls herself, though, in fairness, she has never bothered to address the issue personally. I hover out of sight of the city's inhabitants, as well as of the sight of the endbringer. I remember my vision, I see the Simurgh bear down on the city, the screams of civilians joining her own.

I descend.

A hundred thousand gasps greet me, as a golden beam of mine strikes the Simurgh, searing its feathers and flesh. She has blocked my attack, but I have interrupted her attempt to lift a nearby building.

I grasp now the utility of my task, at least as far as the local lifeforms are concerned; as I bombard the creature with blasts of light, its efforts at causing destruction are blunted, since it must focus part of its energies on the task of surviving my assault.

I pummel the Simurgh again, succeeding where the small coalition of shardbearers, or capes, who have gathered have failed. They have no chance, no hope of standing against her. She sees them all, as she sees everything that will happen, except... I am a blind spot in her vision. It cannot even see that it will survive this encounter, and hence can only... only…

I focus on a thread which I'm unraveling, putting my body on autopilot; it chases the Simurgh through the city, though she is dodging most of my attacks now. But this discovery of mine is more important, I think. She cannot fight me directly; but she is playing the odds, maximizing the probability that I, her sole weakness, will die before she does.

This... displeases me.

I can feel myself losing something as I build a counterattack; years of lifespan suddenly gone. I didn't realize I had one, until now. Nonetheless, it is worth it. She can only exert long-term influence by manipulating certain individuals; rewriting their minds subtly, at a biochemical level. That, fortunately, can easily be rectified. Our positions are asymmetrical; I have no blind spots comparable to hers. She has an instinct for self preservation, I observe. This has potential.

I begin to blaze with golden light. It pushes me forward, at speeds neither the Simurgh, nor anyone else has ever observed me traveling. Surprise registers as well on the two capes presently attempting to land blows on the endbringer. Legend and Eidolon, my power informs me. The former bombards the Simurgh from afar, while the latter, who has been attempting a kind of counter-precognition, gives me a wide berth.

I rush in closely, imitating the human motion known as punching. The blows project golden light, but they throw the Simurgh only a short distance, allowing me to bash her repeatedly. There are soon no more feathers on the spot I fixate on, only a burning indentation which grows, relatively slowly but steadily. I note that I would have to bolster my power by several orders of magnitude to make further progress.

I only have to boost it a little, however, for the message to become clear. The Simurgh retreats; it will remain dormant for at least a year. Having fought it off, I proceed to counter what work she had just managed; lifting up manipulated humans. Most are civilians, though there are a few capes among them. I illuminate them as reconfigure their minds, restoring them to their pre-Simurgh states.

The only other who had any modicum of success fighting the Simurgh hangs back. Wariness and fear emanate from him, though I suspect I am the only one who can sense this.

Puzzling.

The Endbringers, I can see, are summoned by way of his shard. Why, then, was he fighting against his own creations? I make a few attempts at speculation before my power fills in the blank. Worthy opponents.

I still do not comprehend this to my satisfaction, but am distracted by his companion, Legend, who approaches me cautiously. I can see he will ask a question, if given a chance. I have no desire to be around him, however; his shard has that distasteful quality of Eidolon's, that repugnant aura of death and despair so many of them share.

I fly away.

**4/6/2011, 5:01 PM EDT**

The visions I see aren't really my memories; at least, I don't think so. I don't feel the same motivation, the same driving force. My old self was seeking something, and helping humans (but am I not a human?) for something. It isn't something I can relate to. Humans, regardless of their shards, simultaneously interest and repulse me.

I visit countless settlements, receiving adulations for my acts. I descend into one, with a somewhat higher density of shards. I find I can comprehend the glyphs which are ubiquitous throughout the city.

Brockton Bay.

It does not appear to be of any particular significance. I nevertheless direct light towards the rubble of a building, extracting still-intact humans from the rubble. Some of their companions are nearby, and my light deposits those I have rescued in front of the appropriate people. Not for the first time, I feel a general sense of unnaturalness about my abilities. What I have done seems to contradict my notions of what ought to be possible, even if it is nothing that hasn't transpired countless times over, according to my memories.

One of those gathered calls out for her offspring, asking no one in particular as to his location. Her question reverberates in my mind, and I find an answer. I plunge through the rubble, finding the woman's child, which has ceased biological activity.

I ask another question. No, I learn, this one cannot be restored, not without substantial effort on my part.

But that is peculiar. It is within my power to construct any part of these creatures I wish; indeed, it is how my present form came into existence. Then... surely…

I feel my outer form reshaping, shifting to an exact copy the juvenile. The replication is too precise, at first; the form, though just as alive as my previous, golden body, is too disfigured to satisfy the mother, and indeed, I see that emerging from the wreckage with several distorted limbs and exposed organs will provoke unusually passionate reactions in nearly all those nearby.

Some modifications result in a future with minimal screams of horror. An indeterminate amount of time passes, until teams of humans find me. The mother's probability of self-termination decreases significantly.

**Interlude: Hannah**

**4/6/2011, 6:32 PM EDT**

"He's clearly triggered," says Collin.

Miss Militia, fortunately, is inured to her regional leader's blind spots. "We can't recruit him."

"He's definitely got invulnerability," Armsmaster continues. "He might be an Alexandria package."

"He might be," Hannah agrees. "The doctors also say he may be permanently disabled."

Collin moves closer to the hospital room, asking the kid's name. She grabs him firmly, works patiently to quash Armsmaster's nascent plan of inducting a mentally compromised child into the Wards.

As they leave, neither of them hear the boy say "Zion," in reply.

**4/7/2011, various**

During nearly all the time I spend in this form of an adolescent human male, the vast majority of sapients ignore me. One, the mother of the juvenile I am impersonating, pays an inordinate amount of attention, as do a few others. Most of them are employed in a building with the words 'Winslow High School' carved into its front. At certain points in the planetary cycle, I am brought here by my 'parent'. I sit amongst other juveniles, all of whom deviate somewhat from ordinary humans, though only in their behavior. At other times, I am kept in a small domicile. In either place, I am not expected to do anything at all; instead, others bring me (utterly unnecessary) nutrients and other items that humans value. This routine continues over the course of weeks.

I can, and do, escape frequently, flying the skies in my golden form. This activity proves less and less satisfying to me, however, compared to the mindless peace at the place I have begun to think of as home. The mother has seen my transformation, observed it while thinking herself hidden, yet she has not shared this information with anyone else.

Curious. My powers seem to warn against being seen shifting between one form and the other, yet there seemed to be minimal consequences for this. It occurs to me that they might not, in fact, be perfectly reliable.


	3. Chapter 3

**4/8/2011, 12:23 PM EDT**

Conflict between two shards.

The phenomenon compels me to observe it, though less than it once did, especially since it is taking place within the walls of Winslow. I have been dimly aware of both participants, over the course of the past week; their shards draw my attention to some degree regardless of my mindset. One shardbearer, moving in concert with several shardless, deposit liquid onto another, trapped shardbearer. They derive some satisfaction from this act, after which they march out of the room, which, like some others, is restricted on the basis of gender.

As she departs, one of the shardbearers looks at me, and asks me a question. My powers process the true meaning behind it, showing that she is not, in fact, asking about a reproductive event which I am observing.

"You," I answer. I would have replied more fully, told her that I was looking at the other shardbearer too, but my powers veto this idea.

"Well keep your eyes to yourself, retard," she replies. Another of her companions makes a remark, saying that I am, in fact, a retard, though oddly, the intent of her statement is in opposition to that of the shardbearer, whom she addresses as 'Sophia'. The group departs shortly after. I ignore them, as the path of a certain water molecule nearby grabs my attention. Though not remarkable in and of itself, within a few years it has a high probability of -

I hear another question, echoing within the bathroom, from the other shardbearer. Again, my power tells me that she is not looking for copulation advice. I answer again.

"Fight," the words come out, with the aid of my power. They reach the female through the walls, causing her shock and consternation. She emerges, seeing me nearby. Nearby humans avoid the hallway, due to my influence. I sense their presence will prevent my answering.

She narrows her eyes, unsure what to make of me. "Did you say -" she begins.

"Yes."

She still has more moisture on her skin than a typical human. This, my power tells me, causes her distress. The liquid evaporates at my will, quickly and nearly undetected; after all, only in the guise of Scion, after all, do I need to produce light to display my powers. She picks up on this rather quickly, checking her belongings in astonishment. They have not been dried, but returned to their previous, intact state. I answer her next question before she asks it.

"Fight," I repeat, "Administrate." It was odd that her shard, which had an intrinsic _administrative _quality to it, should not have lent hear any talent in that field amongst her own kind. But there were some, smaller organisms nearby, which responded to her ability.

She stares, and my abilities told me she had understood that my second word referred to the effects of her shard. "If I fight them, it's over for me. It'd feel good, sure, but.."

I have no idea how to respond to that, but my power does.

"Not them. Others," I start. New words insinuate themselves in my mind, by a mechanism distinct from my powers. Some of my memories, the incident which apparently triggered my previous lifestyle. "Do good. Help People."

She gives me another look, but her expression is changing. It was similar to that of my 'mother,' as she finished processing the 'fact' that her son was alive and started to observe me more closely.

"I understand," she says. Her tone has shifted somewhat. She speaks more slowly and clearly, now.

"I'm Taylor, by the way. Are you lost?"

"Yes," I reply. It is technically the truth.

**4/12/2011, 3:45 PM EDT**

"They're letting me join the Wards!"

Although I understand each individual word in Taylor's statement without using my power, I can't comprehend their combined meaning. My main attention is devoted to the quadruped, a 'canine,' in front of me. I carefully track its movement, both now, and in the future. It will come into contact with a shardbearer soon, resulting in several interesting destinies.

Taylor sighs. "You aren't even paying attention, are you?" Though both her exhalation of breath and words indicate displeasure, her tone, my power reveals, conveys the opposite.

Dualism. Opposites, hiding in what ought to be synonyms.

I can pick up on this unusual phenomena without my power as well, sometimes. It is strange enough to draw my attention from the dog; I turn quickly to face her, activating my interpretative abilities. Her probable futures have been altered considerably. Nearly all of them, however, do not feature participation in the gathering known as the Wards.

"I am," I reply.

Her lips curve upward, slightly; I recognize the gesture as one expressing amusement. "Well, sure, _now_ you are." She has grown more used to my movements, I suspect, as she does not flinch when I turn my attention to her, as she once did.

"Yes." It is not as if I used the past tense, I thought, puzzled. I gain further evidence that my knowledge of this language's grammar was lacking, as without the benefit of my power, any further dimension to either of our statements is lost to me.

Nonetheless, I feel a desire to speak without invoking my abilities. It appeals to something within me

**4/13/2011, 4:40 PM EDT**

"She was in the Wards," Taylor says. Her tone, I am now aware, conveys anger and bitterness. Though she has not mentioned her by name, I know the cape she is speaking of. Shadow Stalker, or Sophia.

"Yes," I reply.

She pauses at the answer, considering her response. "You knew that, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"You're a precog, aren't you?"

"Yes." My power tells me that the word is an abbrieviation of 'precognition'. That is, after all, one of my many abilities.

She narrows her eyes, seemingly contemplating her options. "Are there any villains near by?"

It takes a bit of my power to decipher the meaning of the term _villain_, but I decipher it, and this allows me to answer. "The nearest one is about ten feet away."

Taylor jumps, and a figure emerges from behind a tree. I notice one of its leaves; it will, unlike its compatriots, never reach maturation. Instead it will be nipped in the bud, while partially developed. This is fascinating to me.

"Guess that's my cue to show myself," says the interloper. My powers revealed her names; though she had many, for a human. She was born with one, was already known to Taylor by another, and would introduce herself with still another.

"You're Tattletale," says Taylor, a hint of accusation in her voice.

"The one and only," she replies, grinning. "But you can call me Lisa, when we're out of costume, anyway."

Taylor looks shocked at this. "I- I'm not a villain. You shouldn't have-"

'Lisa' didn't stop grinning. "Relax, I know. But I don't think you're so sure about joining the Wards anymore, either."

"You were spying on me?"

"Not really. It's kinda my thing, y'know. Knowing stuff."

"Right," responded Taylor, warily. "So now that I'm down, you're trying to turn me to the dark side."

"Well, I mean, I think they kinda did that for me, right? You've seen what the so-called heroes tolerate amongst themselves. I have a hunch you won't have much to do with them from now on."

They continue their conversation, which is of little interest to me. The journey of the leaf commands my full attention, until I hear another question, directed at me.

"What's your name?" asks Tattletale.

I give my human moniker. She frowns.

"I can't get a read on you. Why?" Taylor makes some gestures, indicating that I shouldn't answer. I process them too late.

"Your shard is tempered," I reply.

She furls her brow. "And what do you mean by -"

"I think we're finished here," says Taylor. A number of small _bugs _have assembled at her command. Her intent is to intimidate, and it will succeed.

Tattletale departs, but I see I will encounter her once more.

**4/13/2011, 5:20 PM EDT**

"The ABB's coming for me," Taylor says, outside of my building. "Their new leader is _pissed_. She's not gonna rest until I'm taken care of."

"Yes," I offer. Each of the statements is true, as far as my abilities can affirm.

"I... don't want to put you in any danger... but could I ask you some questions, sometime in school, maybe? I'm not gonna just roll over for them."

"Yes."


	4. Chapter 4

**Interlude: Taylor**

**4/13/2011, 4:30 PM EDT**

Probably a Thinker of some kind. And what would the 'official' classification be for a _drying _power anyway? A Breaker? A shaker? neither of them really fit. Whatever the true nature of his powers, he'd somehow figured out, Taylor knew, that she had powers.

If he is a precog, she reasoned then he might very well have seen that she would beat Lung, and hadn't actually risked her life by telling her, at that moment, to go out and fight. Or maybe he hadn't, but didn't care. Or, Taylor realizes, the question might not have occurred to him. She knows there was nothing preventing people with mental disabilities from getting powers, but she hadn't actually _thought _about the implications. Who knew what kind of craziness he could set into motion?

Of course, she wasn't planning on reporting him to the Protectorate anytime soon. The less she had to do with them, the better.

It was stupid to assume they'd be different from Winslow's administration. They had certain people in their circle, and obviously they didn't care if one of them likes to run around torturing people. She can't believe she ever thought otherwise.

As if on cue, Taylor sees him in the park, gazing fascinatedly at... some ants? She waves, and he makes no gesture of recognition. But after her second attempt at a greeting, he whips around, fixating on her.

"Uh," she begins, slightly shaken, "You remember me, right? I'm Taylor Hebert." He stares, apparently attentive but completely unresponsive. It's... really fucking weird, but not any more so than their first meeting. "What- um, what do you call yourself?" She curses herself silently for managing to be awkward even in this socially maladroit company. His reply is quick, his voice not monotone but _off _in some unplaceable way.

"Zion."

* * *

**4/13/2011, 5:00 PM EDT**

Taylor sees Tattletale slink off out of the corner of her eye, as she and 'Zion' head off. He must be able to find his way back home, she assumes, or his parent or guardian wouldn't have let him wander around the park by himself, right?

As she thinks it, she realizes that _of course _they might. Taylor wasn't sure what was worse; a person driven to a debilitating condition because of their power, or an _already _disabled person treated such that they would have a trigger event...

* * *

**4/14/2011, 12:00 PM EDT**

The information Taylor gets from him is disturbing.

The Undersiders wanted to recruit her, and are confident that they will succeed. Given that they have a precog - or something like it- in the form of Lisa, it might not be misplaced. She remembers her anger towards the Wards, the Protectorate... really, just everything. Could they have gotten to her, she wonders, in her moment of weakness?

She knows precogs could interfere with each other; and wonders if Zion had thrown a wrench in their plans for her. He has certainly helped her in that respect, giving a rundown of their powers(although sometimes in terms she can barely understand), their connections (and, she notes if Coil is really behind them, he's much more dangerous than she thought), and most importantly, their next big heist.

Taylor's swarm is already in the bank. If she can beat Lung, taking on Coil and his henchmen... well it wouldn't be easy, but she had no intention of going down the alternative path.

* * *

**4/15/2011, 11:00 AM EDT**

Heated air blasts past me, concentrated with dust, ash, and other particulates. I am not in my golden guise, however, and so I manipulate it discreetly, causing the effects, which would otherwise terminate nearby humans to veer away harmlessly, thus keeping my cover intact.

A shard is ultimately responsible for this, as well as the other explosions which have occurred throughout the city. It's owner, one Bakuda, is familiar to me, as I was asked by Taylor describe her powers, at one point. I did not investigate it at the time, but I begin to wonder if there is a connection between these events. I must use my power to do so, as whatever chain of logic was governing her inquires is still incomprehensible to me, in spite of my increasing acclimation with humanity in general.

Admittedly, this familiarity has been limited to only two individuals. Besides Taylor, the other refers to herself as 'Lisa' or 'Tattletale.' She has cornered me several times now, asking questions for a certain length of time. These interrogations usually end when I lose interest, or she begins to bring her head into contact with various objects, usually her hands or a nearby surface.

Her own shard, I sense, is nearby, hiding in a place which will not be targeted. I move to her location. She yelps as she sees me, my arrival having not been detected by her shard.

"Goddamn it," she exclaims. "I'm still getting used to that." She looks me over, appraisingly. "So your power told you this was a safe spot, too?"

"No," I reply.

She stares. "You mean it's not safe here?"

"No."

"... Then, it _is_ safe here?"

"Yes."

She pauses again. "But that wasn't why you came here?"

"Yes."

"Do you... care about getting hit by one of those bombs?"

"No."

"... Why not?"

I pause. Questions starting with that one word often give me trouble. This one, I felt, might be comprehensible enough to answer without my power. Eventually, I say, "They cannot harm me."

She begins what will become a flurry of questions. None of them, I can see, will decrease my lifespan in the long run, and so I answer them all, with each reply rendering Tattletale more confused than the last.

* * *

**4/16/2011, 9:43 PM IST**

I float through the hallway underneath the massive settlement. The collection of energy would be sufficient to severely damage me in my human state, to impede me even now. There are few futures, however, which will see me make direct contact with it. The energy has been collected by the agency of one shardbearer: Phir Se. His companions have alerted him to my presence; but none of them are certain how to respond.

The conversation proceeds in the _Punjabi_ language, which I understand like all others, as long as an unplaceable power of mine is in effect.

"It won't work," I say. Phir Se does not react to this, though many of the others have become shocked merely by my act of speech.

"Have you come to stop me?" Phir Se asks.

"No," I reply. My mission was my perenial do-goodery, and having made that statement, my power has dubbed my task fulfilled. The energy is stronger than ever as I leave.

* * *

**4/17/2011, 3:26 PM EDT**

"You shouldn't be talking to her," Taylor says.

I do not respond. Neither an inquiry nor a command, after all, was made.

"Why did you tell her anything, anyway?" she asks.

Again, I deliberate. "She asked."

Taylor sighs. "Do you - actually- have to do everything anyone asks?"

"No."

"But then... why?"

I wrack my memories. "I was told to be polite."

She looks at me oddly. "What? By who?"

"A British vagrant."

She walks away eventually, muttering under her breath.

* * *

**5/1/2011, 3:26 PM EDT**

Another task assigned to me is to fight these Endbringers. I am surprised, however, to find one in this location. It has never emerged before, like the others. It was not accounted for by my power, which registered only twenty of the creatures. Yet, it is clearly similar in composition to the others, and present in a location rife with civilians.

Was my power always so prone to making errors?

I grasp the Endbringer, its containment vessel shattering before my golden hand. I hurl it with just enough force to break through the building's interior walls. The creature is unresponsive, but my orders are clear; I punch and kick at it, throwing it throughout the laboratory. As I work, I dimly perceive an approaching shardbearer; my power gives his name as 'Blasto.' After a few hours, the building is thoroughly destroyed, a smoldering mess. I judge the pseudo-endbringer sufficiently fought, and I throw it on the ground.

Blasto stares, his mouth opening and closing without emitting sound. A coalition of humans, some with shards and some without, descend upon the scene, looking from me, to the villain, to his various creations, most notably the Endbringer, which causes them some shock.

I leave as the crowd falls upon Blasto. Another Endbringer, I sense, will soon be taking up my time.

* * *

**Interlude: Morrigan**

**5/1/2011, 4:26 PM EDT**

The foam doesn't block all of her powers. She can still see the past and the future; her biokinesis is also working.

Nearly every future shows her imminent death. Morrigan works in overdrive, causing just enough damage to make her captors weary, without drawing enough attention to her efforts. If they notice she is working on them, it's game over, she knows. For her and the hundreds of thousands of people nearby.

Acceptable losses, they'd say later. And the world, having been told an accurate version of those events, would agree. Scion, who'd welcomed her into the world with a four-hour beating, seemed like a piker compared with these people.

What did she ever do to them?

Yeah, OK, there's someone who looks like her, and she's done some unforgivable shit. And the resemblance may be more than skin deep. Not that Morrigan had too good an idea how she works, either. Just that she'd noticed someone else looking, when she was.

Up to ten hours in the past, anywhere in the world. At any number of futures, but no more than five hours ahead. Those are her limits. But whenever she looks, Morrigan can sense _her. _The Simurgh is aware of her, of everything, as far as Morrigan can see. Some of the knowledge Morrigan was born with prepares her for this. Some of that... was most likely _from_ her.

Morrigan wriggle out of the foam. Putting all of her power towards seeing the future, she flees the the facility.


	5. Chapter 5

**Interlude: Lisa**

**4/13/2011, 4:41 PM EDT**

Standing up slightly straighter than in our previous encounter, meaning somewhat less suicidal, because of -.

A dead end, crude and abrupt. Her leaps of intuition normally come on one after the other, overloading her with more information than she could handle, giving her headaches if it goes overboard.

The guy can cancel out her power, but she was getting a migraine all the same.

She had all but forgotten how slow her deductive skills were before. Not anymore, of course. She had been forced to investigate the old-fashioned way; and she hadn't gotten anything particular.

His name lets her look up records, social media posts, and, discreetly, old friends. Surprisingly, her powers work as she sift through these, at least to a point; any materials dating from before April 6th of this year were perfectly accessible to her. She reaps details of all kinds: his interests, dreams, motivations…

On that day, she knew, a building had collapsed; Scion had rescued a number of people from the rubble. He was among them, though he had been disabled ever since. Mentally, anyway. Physically, he'd made an astonishing recovery. And, she had to guess, triggered, because none of the medical records activated her power at all. Neither do the accounts of any of his friends, at least, whenever they talk about anything involving him post April 5th. Of course, the latter are sparse anyways; the guy is apparently a walking vegetable compared to his old self.

Lisa manages to sneak up to his mother, quietly, in a context where she will be willing to make small talk. As usual, her power works just fine, insofar as Lisa uses it to help find her, and get her talking. But all of her answers that could possibly give Lisa anything on him come up empty.

She does seem to know he has powers - Lisa doesn't need any kind of super intuition to interpret her surprised flinch when she describes a time she knew he was out late. But, even though she has all the deceptive abilities of a cow, without her power, she can't get anything more than a basic read off of her. His mother runs off abruptly when Lisa tries a follow up question without her power.

When Coil asks her what she's spending more and more of her time on, she tells him. If Coil ever investigates him personally, she never hears about it. Coil never brings him up again.

She prepares for the next time they'll meet; her questions during the last encounter were sub-par. She didn't have reasonable use of her powers then, or even much presence of mind. If she had, she would have asked about those 'shards.'

Definitely a precog... It would explain everything, including his immunity to her powers. There is only one problem with this idea...

* * *

**5/15/2011, 1:32 PM EDT**

"No."

She curses internally, before realizing that there is no particular reason for him to tell the truth. He doesn't _seem _sophisticated enough to lie, but it's hardly a certainty. In fact, she could swear she overheard him give Taylor the exact opposite answer, when she was listening in on their conversation. She fumbles for her list of questions.

"So you have no knowledge of future events?"

"No."

"Then you do?"

"Yes."

"But you're not a precog..."

"Yes."

She sighs. "How would you define the word _precog_?"

"Using the American variant of the English language."

"... Can you define it?"

"Yes."

"... What is the definition of a precog?"

"A human with a shard enabling the obtaining of extratemporal information."

That brought up something she was saving for later. "What are these shards?"

He doesn't respond, though he doesn't avert his gaze in the slightest.

"You aren't gonna answer?"

"Yes."

"Why not?"

He pauses again. When he does reply, it sounds more _unnatural _than his previous replies.

"To do so would reduce both of our lifespans considerably."

Before Lisa can say anything in response to this, sirens begin to blare.

* * *

**5/15/2011, 1:37 PM EDT**

The relatively large sonic disruptions appear to influence all nearby humans. They pour out of their domiciles, congregating at several locations. The one nearby addresses me.

"It's an Endbringer," Lisa says. Some changes in her vocalizations indicate a considerable degree of distress.

"Yes." I reply.

She pauses, a conflicted expression appearing on her face. "Can... your power affect them?"

"Yes."

Her intention is to ask my assistance, since she doesn't know I will be rendering it anyway. "Do you-," she pauses, oddly reluctant to continue. "Do you want to help?"

It is a different order of question. I _will _help, of course, but do I _want _to?

* * *

**5/15/2011, 2:00 PM EDT**

I amble through the building, following the Undersiders. The makeshift costume Sarah - or is it Lisa? - Tattletale supplied me with draws some attention for its deviance from the norm, but the focus on me is far less than it would have been, had I arrived unmasked.

I notice a familiar face. Taylor approaches, her face drawn in anger beneath her costume. She is accompanied by some other juvenile capes. _New Wave_ is the moniker they have chosen for themselves.

An argument ensues. Though I am its main subject, it is of little interest to me. A familiar quadruped has my attention; it trails one of the Undersiders.

A question from a disturbing source renders me alert. I turn to see a cape, Legend, awaiting a response. His form is meant to be pleasing to humans, but his shard is of that flavor which causes me a great deal of unease. Nevertheless, I reply.

"Yes."

My answer causes a lull in all nearby conversations.

"You're sure? You're not just guessing?"

I receive a premonition; I must act carefully to prevent the loss of a large portion of my lifespan. I invoke my powers to respond.

* * *

**5/15/2011, 2:20 PM EDT**

The capes take their positions; the most durable assemble to witness the advance of the Endbringer. Among them is the Summoner. His presence arouses some curiosity in me, especially since he was present for the previous Endbringer fight. Yet his behavior does not seem consistent with the motive my power provided before.

The inaccurate definitions which have apparently accumulated within it begin to trouble me. A precog, after all, is a cape, which as I have inquired of multiple sources, is in turn is a human with a shard attached in a particular way. Whether I am human or not, I certainly do not meet those criteria. Perhaps Eidolon too was ordered to fight the Endbringers, and does so, even though his shard is what has brought them, will bring the other 17 into existence.

He is not their creator, not their designer; his role is more like that of a human delivery man. Their engineering was accomplished by -

Just the thought causes me pain, a thousand times more than the niggling sensation I feel whenever I encounter tainted shards, though it comes, I think, from the same source.

I leave this dangerous train of thought behind, in time to see Leviathan break into a run. Several capes ask me questions, which I answer as accurately as my efficiency-corrected power will permit.

The fight, I can see, is proceeding with a relatively low level of terminations, compared to historical norms. Capes termed _Movers _transport humans based on my advice. Capes, likewise, reposition themselves accordingly. Leviathan advances towards its goal at a faster pace than he would have otherwise, but fewer humans, shardbearers or shardless, are dying.

"Can you tell us when Scion will arrive?" asked one of the capes. Another turned to admonish her, claiming that it would be impossible for me to answer. As I begin to reply, I notice something of considerable interest: Leviathan has shifted his aim from his previous target. His movements are now directed towards the source of the interference to his aims: namely, me.

I answer the first question, stating the exact immediately upcoming time when my golden form will manifest in the city. The surprise and hope which this statement generates is tempered by my subsequent pronouncements, which inform them of Leviathan's advance towards our location.

I do not join the fleeing capes, as my power has suggested a simple, low-cost method of discreetly assuming the shape of Scion, while leaving none to further inquire of my human form in such a way as to reduce my lifespan.

Leviathan's tail whips at me. I move so as to appear struck, and sink down into the water.

* * *

**5/15/2011, 2:47 PM EDT**

One minute remains until the moment I told them I'd arrive. I move away from the city, then begin a descent, leaving a trail of golden light in my wake. A number of casualties have occurred in my brief absence.

I lob a blast at Leviathan, and he is sent flying, crashing into rubble.

He rises immediately, but he is far less agile than the Simurgh; he cannot dodge my attacks at all. His outer husk burns in the face of my barrage. I feel something almost like pity as the Endbringer struggles, unable to even send a wave into a crowd of bystanders, thanks to my light. I feel further confusion as the Endbringer's summoner -Eidolon- strikes in the wake of my attacks. They are somewhat less powerful than mine, though the difference in damage is less than an order of magnitude.

I think about the problem of his motivation, based on what I have learned concerning the behavior of local sapients. Perhaps it is a human game of some kind?

I save my philosophical questions for later, focusing instead on further fighting the Endbringer. His resistance is crumbling, and I can see he will soon flee. I decide to chase him for a certain length of time, perhaps to the ocean depths; I have not yet filled my fighting quota.


	6. Chapter 6

**6/7/2011, 8:15 PM EDT**

Grotesque. Vile. Abominable.

Even without my power, I can summon up the words, but even with it, I cannot accurately convey the sensation of the containers. Most of those present can only see the cannisters' exteriors, but my powers allow me a truer vision, though I do my best to avoid it. Nonetheless, a part of me seems inexplicably drawn towards the nameless wretchedness contained within. It is as if my mind seeks to torture itself: one part performing the scouring while the other recoils.

There is nothing else nearby that can significantly affect me in any way; not even the unusually dense cluster of shards drawing near. But all my senses, all of my mental effort is devoted to grappling with that which lies before me.

_Pain_. That is the sensation. Part of it, anyway. _Despair_. That was another component. I realize, without use of my power, that I have observed these sensations elsewhere. The reaction of my 'mother,' in those futures where I did not assume my current form in her presence. It affected a number of individuals in the city, after Leviathan's visit. Would they have the answer? The negative sensation is unpleasant enough that I grow unconcerned about the reduction of my lifespan. My powers grasp for possible solutions; but they are convoluted. I know my power can fail me at times; it is a dark coincidence that this, the worst problem I can clearly recall encountering, should be one of those instances.

I snap up in shock, a reaction to a disgusting display. One of the containers has spilled over. The sight of the liquid spilling onto the floor provokes in me a sharp, nearly unbearable pain, but it recedes moments later, as the contents combust. I ignore the frenzied humans nearby, who are fleeing.

Two bottles are broken at once, and I am lucid enough to use my power productively. The fire and heat will dispose of any spilled liquid now, but the final bottle has merely rolled away; out of sight of the intruding capes.

I marshal my remaining skill, building up the... _resolve _to destroy the final bottle.

* * *

**Interlude: Jacob**

**6/7/2011, 8:20 PM EDT**

"Crawler! You can finish up later! Group meeting!"

The monstrosity ignores his command, and it would be a sign of weakness to repeat it again to no effect. Instead, Jack turns his attention to the target of Crawler's attacks.

A nondescript man, a boy, really. His face is contorted with grief, but beyond a slight trembling, he does not affect any fear. Normally, Jack would take this as evidence of a stoic character breaking at the seams at the reality of his impending demise.

Normal people, however, didn't go one on one with Crawler and survive. One could hardly call it one-on-one, at that. Crawler is in a full frenzy, pausing his attacks only long enough for his limbs to regrow. He tries to headbutt the boy, but the motion merely carves a person-shaped hole in his head. Jack thinks it might be his imagination, but Crawler seems to regenerate from this injury more slowly than he ought to. He stops after another swipe takes his arm off, and it's _slow _to come back; the healing reduction is clear, now. Of course, Crawler's true desire is to grow stronger, not to die, and this newcomer, somehow, can only offer him the prospect of the latter.

This... could be interesting.

The Siberian rushes in. She _tears _his flesh easily, but there isn't any spray of blood and guts. His wounds heal instantly; she causes no more damage than she would to a pile of pudding.

Slowly, the boy begins to raise his right hand, staring at something in the distance, apparently ignoring the Siberian. When she tries to sink her teeth into it, to rip it off, she disappears.

While Jack would like to flee, his instinct is to stand his ground. Anything less will set off alarm bells in the others, bring nascent neuroses, dreams of treachery to the surface. The Siberian winks back into existence.

"Wow," exclaimed Bonesaw, "He's tough! Bet I could take him, though!"

If this remark annoys the Siberian, she doesn't show it. The boy's hand shakes slightly, his focus evidently centered on... a can? It floats, evidently at his behest. Finally, it drops, smashing into one of Burnscar's blazes. He relaxes visibly, as if his problems are over.

"Can we help you?" Jack drawls sardonically. He has sufficient control to not react at his whiplike movement. The boy stares at Jack directly as he answers.

"No." A pause. Then, "It is done."

A wild impulse comes to Jack. "I don't suppose you would be on your way, then? We were about to have a meeting."

"Ok," he says. Just like that, he walks away.

The Siberian growls, chasing after him. In a few minutes, she rejoins the group.

It occurs to Jack that the strange boy had been rather pliant, for all his power. If he had complied with that request so easily, one could only imagine what else he could be suggested into doing... But no, he would be dangerous an element to deal with. The Siberian was controllable only through careful manipulation, chiefly her affection for Bonesaw. This one was evidently stronger, and with no obvious carrots or sticks beyond a nondescript, now melted canister. The was an indescribably emptiness to his voice, resisting all of Jack's normally instinctive personality analysis.

Jack moves on to the matter of Mannequin, who appears to be missing most of his appendages.

* * *

**Interlude: Susan**

**6/7/2011, 11:34 PM EDT**

"Your son is dead," Glory Girl says.

Everything freezes, but only for a moment.

"My _son _is up in his room," Susan says angrily. Or at least, he was five minutes ago. Would that be enough time to…

Of course it would - he's Scion.

The assembled group of heroes reacts sharply to this. Several of them stare at one of their number, a familiar looking cape... Weaver, that's it. The newest member of New Wave. Her backstory had been... eye-opening to say the least. She recognized most of the Wards as well; they seemed to be getting along well with the capes from New Wave, considering the success of the very sordid lawsuit they had brewing.

"Can we... see him?" Weaver asks.

"Well..." She wonders how much they know. Just after she saw him transform, she thought that somehow, her teenage son had become Scion. But that couldn't be; the golden man had been around long before... Although, even as she thought of it, she realized that it wasn't out of the question for Scion to have time travel powers. Could he really have triggered, warping back in time to perform every act prior to his trigger, after which he emerged from the rubble?

"Please, Mrs. Veder, some of our friends need help, and if your son is still alive-"

"I thought you came over to pay your respects," she says, perhaps a bit too sharply.

"We had a couple of things on our itinerary," says a cape she doesn't recognize; a girl with dirty blonde hair. Actually, there's something slightly familiar about her.

"The Slaughterhouse 9 are after my sister," blurts out Glory Girl.

A few months ago, having anything to do with anyone involved with them wouldn't have been something she'd even consider. But if it was true, he might really be the only one who can help... She makes her decision. "GREG!" she shouts. "You have visitors!"

He doesn't call out "MOM" petulantly, poke his head out awkwardly, or come rushing down the stairs.

After the accident, she thought that maybe nothing was left of him; and at first this seemed to be true. Even now, he walks strangely: perfectly upright, eyes straight ahead, face expressionless.

But he does seem to be improving, bit by bit; after all, this time he actually responds to her yelling. Just earlier today, his face hadn't been the mask of indifference it usually was. OK, it was more like his face was twitching than him actually changing his expression, but it looked as if he felt sad, or in pain.

Her hug didn't seem to affect him, like always. Or maybe it did; he did go back to his 'expressionless mode' soon after. But she had never been happier to see him sad. He might still be in there, somewhere; somehow.

Weaver stiffens at the sight of him, and Susan Veder waits to find out what this is all about.

* * *

**6/7/2011, 11:37 PM EDT**

"Everyone thought Leviathan killed you!" Taylor exclaims.

"No," I reply. She misunderstands me, assuming I am confirming that I am alive, even though I am really calling her out on her false statement. I had been completely aware of the fact that Leviathan had not killed me.

"How come you didn't run when he was coming?" asks Lisa. "And why didn't you show up afterwards?"

"I pretended to be hit with Leviathan's tail, and escaped in the confusion," I reply.

Apparently satisfied by my response, they begin to interrogate me about a group of capes known as the Slaughterhouse 9. It is curious that they should ask such questions given that certain members of the latter are rapidly approaching our location.


	7. Chapter 7

**Interlude: Victoria**

**6/8/2011, 7:39 AM EDT**

Tattletale might already know; well, at least that something's happened. But even she's absorbed in the discussion. We'd moved to Mrs. Veder's dining room to continue making our plan; with the help of a precog who could predict even Scion, it had seemed possible that we could actually stand a chance, even without calling Legend for help. But then…

"He couldn't actually have left, could he?"

* * *

**6/8/2011, 1:07 PM BST**

Kevin Norton seems surprised to hear my vocalizations. It takes the use my power to determine the reason: he has never experienced it firsthand; only once has he even heard of me speaking.

"Then... you understand?" Kevin Norton asks. "You'll try to kill the endbringers?"

"Yes."

"And.. you think you can kill them?"

"Yes."

"And... you.. were always able.. to.. kill them?"

"Yes."

Kevin Norton collapses, shaking irregularly. One of his companions, a female, grabs him, saying ineffective words. Untrue statements, at that. This bothers me enough to drive me to speak unbidden.

"No," I interject, addressing the woman, Lisette. "Had Kevin Norton not asked me to do so, I would have continued to fight the Endbringers in the manner which I previously had."

They are both still. Losing interest, I observe the rain, lightly dousing us; the clouds, still oversaturated with water; the rickety bridge, which will retain its structural integrity anywhere from two to twenty-seven years, depending on several factors. I am one of them.

Another question draws my attention.

"You've only been fighting them because he told you to?" Lisette asks.

"Yes."

"Why did you listen to him?"

Another _why._ Worse, my power's attempt to answer is more than a little inadequate. It can reach back in time to show me the moment when Kevin Norton approached my golden form, but the information provided concerning my thought processes is ... _alien_.

I ask why I cannot understand, but this proves equally ineffective. Finally, I provide an answer based only on my own observations.

"I respond to verbal instructions generally."

A bit of a pause, now. "So if, if a villain, for example, told you to do something... you'd do it?"

"Yes."

"H-have you - already done things that villains have told you?"

"Yes."

My grasp of the vocabulary of any human language is insufficient to accurately describe their contorted faces, much less the mental states which their expressions imply.

"Who?"

I retrieve his identity, but it is meaningless to them, so I give his cape name. "Jack Slash." Curiously, neither Kevin nor Lisette reacts to this... although, I realize, staying so unusually still is a reaction in and of itself.

"What..." asks Lisette finally, "did he say to you?"

"He asked if he could assist me."

"What did you say to him?"

"I replied that he could not." This produces something like relief in them.

"Was... that all?"

"No."

"...What else did he tell you?"

"He asked if I could proceed away, on the grounds that he was about to have a meeting."

"And... you did?"

"Yes."

This snaps Kevin Norton out of his stupor. "Listen, Zion. You can_not_ listen to Jack Slash, or other villains. And if you see Jack again, you have to take him out. Take out the Nine, the Sleeper, monsters like that. Fight them and kill them."

I nod in affirmation.

* * *

**Interlude: William**

**6/9/2011, 10:10 AM EDT**

He finds himself unable to locate Bonesaw.

Normally... though normally, of course he wouldn't have failed in the first place... Normally, he would have asked Jack, but he was the first go missing.

His leadership capabilities, William knows, are, or perhaps were, substantial; he doubts the group will hold together much longer. It seems only fitting that he abandon the 'rules' of this game Jack had set up.

The whole point of the Siberian, after all, is a rejection of all the rules, the constraints, of human society. After - after the incident, the opportunity presented itself, and it killed two birds with one stone. She would be back, in a fashion, through him. He would live for the both of us, and there would be no consequences. Not ever again.

Cherish... is she aware of his true nature? Perhaps. With elaborate revenge plans looking less likely by the moment, she was probably the most dangerous, out of his 'companions.' But her capture was easy to work out, to trace from eyewitnesses who told him what he needed before he tore them apart. Taken, probably by one of the local factions. They'd been cooperating from the beginning; that was clear, now. Legend, though, still didn't seem to be in the loop.

_If they aren't going to him... they must still be playing the game…_

Which would imply that the disappearances are the work of another.

He sees Crawler fly through the air, a golden trail of light propelling him upwards. Scion blasts him further and further into the sky, clearly toying with him.

_Fantastic._

The one individual that could put an end to his journey. The differences in the golden man's behavior would trouble him quite a bit if he gave two shits about the fate of the world anymore. Obviously, this was the onset of the changes Contessa predicted; heralding the point at which the entity would cease its attempts to simulate heroism and carry out something like the vision she'd had of the future.

A final blast eradicates Crawler.

* * *

**6/9/2011, 10:20 AM EDT**

The mission, namely, to fight and kill each member of the Slaughterhouse 9, is nearly complete.

The projection of William Manton slices into me, as before. Though the blows are just as ineffective, I realize, with only a slight prodding from my power, that he will make the connection quickly. There is, after all, only one other individual he has observed who has displayed such resistance to his attacks.

I think quickly, fulfilling my orders while denying him time to cause complications.

I blast the projection with a different ability. It is equally ineffectual as anything else would be, but it is a deception. My true attack strikes the projector where he is concealed. He staggers, and the projection with it. I lift all three of our forms, and we barrel through the sky, with William Manton still hidden in the floating debris.

The distance we cover is considerable; on impulse, I choose a location with an unusual density of shards to make my landing. We tear through the barriers keeping the structure apart from the world. They are tougher than I would have estimated; the Siberian penetrates through more easily than I do. The accompanying destruction is immense, though I mitigate it somewhat, so that our fight will be appropriately concluded.

A few more blasts of light, coupled with disorienting blows to the projector, and now all the capes present who have not burst through the path we carved have observed our battle.

I compress the shrapnel under which William Manton is hiding, just as I direct a large blast at his projection. The fight both appears to end and ends.

There is nothing more to do for the moment, and I decide to idle, for a moment. The sensation is most akin to human... tiredness. Odd, since I barely burned through any of my lifespan. I merely observe as the strange collection of capes continue to stream out. One of them, who has assumed the form of a juvenile, approaches me. Since her presence in this place marks her as a villain, I do not listen to her speech.

The futures made possible by the spreading of these shards cause me to experience something like pleasure. I decide to follow Kevin Norton's advice more closely from now on.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: All of the snippets in this update are omakes. I opted to write them in the third person both because I felt it was more appropriate, somehow, and also to distinguish them from the main story.**

**Also, as the final omake here is a crossover, I must note that Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling, and Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality, from which this scenario is derived, is a fanfiction of the former by Eliezer Yudkowsky.**

* * *

**Golden Mid-Morning**

Madison hadn't wanted anything to do with it, along with most of their friends. Even Emma had made excuses, managed to back out.

As if losing your mind was a get out of jail free card. Sophia knew better. All it proved was that the freak had been prey. She still was, even if most people found the hunt distasteful.

Her stare was blank, her blinking slow and mechanical. Taylor Hebert stood out now more than ever, after she'd come out of the locker.

The alley was deserted. There was no one to keep her from what she deserved.

Hebert was walking back and forth, apparently aimlessly. Sophia snuck in, using her shadowform, materializing behind a strategically placed trash can. As Hebert approached, she rushed out, her leg in place...

The pain in her leg was sharp and intense - Hebert had just, _kept on walking;_ her spindly legs somehow overpowering Sophia's without any apparent difficulty. Sophia yelled as she fell, while Taylor continued to trot away.

"Where the fuck are you going, twerp?" Sophia's brain was on autopilot at this point, and it hadn't bothered to process the fact that Taylor's leg had somehow acquired the stopping power of a skyscraper. "Fight me!"

The moment Sophia'd said it, Taylor pivoted in place, facing Sophia head-on. The disabled girl uttered a single word.

"OK."

* * *

**Golden Afterschool**

It was fucking _Scion_.

Principal Blackwell didn't ordinarily swear, even in her internal monologue. But that was her reaction upon seeing the golden man pull one her students out of a locker stuffed with filth. Her private response to the publicity was considerably more profane, admittedly. The fact that the school was a place that Scion had to save someone from once was bad enough...

She turned the corner, walking towards the entrance to the cafeteria, and there he was, right on time.

Scion, the world's most powerful hero, was standing still as a statue, in the center of the hallway. His face was as expressionless as ever, but the _scalding_ sensation emanating from him could have made her swear he was glaring straight into her soul.

OK, admittedly, that incident had been pretty severe. But there were worse schools, surely, in _America_, even, to say nothing of foreign countries.

And yet, every weekday, from the first bell to the last, Scion decided to set up shop right in her school. From 7 AM to 5 PM, at first, until international protest had resulted in the forcible termination of Winslow's afterschool activities. It also meant the end of detention, but discipline problems had diminished considerably, lately.

There was talk about shutting the school down for good, hoping Scion wouldn't just follow the bullied, or the bullies, to continue his unblinking surveillance. It would, she knew, be the end of her career, and at this point, she might just welcome it.

Where, she sometimes wondered, did it all go wrong? When she'd given Sophia a little leeway? When she hadn't listened to earlier complaints? Or when she had, in the face of the golden man's incessant stare, rhetorically asked for someone able to monitor the halls throughout the school day to prevent all instances of bullying..

In her darker moments, she wondered if, in fact, the golden man had _actually _taken what she said at face value, and was here, for some incomprehensible reason, because she'd asked. She might have asked Scion, if she had the nerve to speak to him again.

* * *

**Golden Night**

Jack Slash paused, but only for a moment. Opportunities like this didn't come along often.

"Wait!" he shouted.

The boy paused. He turned to face Jack with the same rapid movement.

"Stand on one leg," Jack said, in a level voice.

The boy immediately did so, standing perfectly upright with no apparent difficulty.

Jack felt another impulse. "Show me your true form."

There was brief kaleidoscope of sensations reminiscent of his trigger event. When the haze subsided, he could still see _something _massive, unimaginable in its vastness, which he couldn't put a name to. It permeated every corner of the world, and yet, it seemed to center, somehow, on the personage of -

Scion.

For a moment, Jack was lost in the possibilities. This was a moment too long.

"Scion, kill the others," Cherish said.

The blasts were faster than the Siberian.

* * *

**Golden Answer**

Mr. Grim, having finished his work, retreated back into the crowd. The tombstone was left next to dismembered corpse of the Boy-Who-At-Last-No-Longer-Lived, since, after all, fragments of his skull and bits of his brains were on it.

Voldemort flicked his wand, and the grisly mess was enveloped in Fiendfyre. It was therefore of considerable surprise to everyone present to see the death of the flames reveal not a pile of ash, but instead, a fully intact, seemingly awake, Harry Potter.

The boy stood up with a jolt. Every death eater present unleashed a barrage of spells, but even the killing curse appeared to have no effect at all.

Still hovering above, Voldemort noted that Harry wasn't making any attempt to flee.

_"You won't run, child?" _Voldemort asked, in parseltongue.

Harry turned to face him, as if he hadn't been paying him any attention until that moment. "_No."_

_"You have decided to accept your fate?"_

A pause. "No."

_"You think I will not kill you?"_

_"Yess."_

_"Asss you believe that I cannot kill you." _

_"Yess."_

His death eaters had been casting every relevant ward Voldemort believed they were capable of. None of it seemed to be getting them anywhere. Voldemort turned to more pressing matters.

_"Are you planning on desstroying world?" _

The boy paused before hissing back "Yess"

_"What of the Vow that bindss you?" _

_"No vow bindss me."_

Voldemort stopped his questioning for a full minute. He began again with a new, pressing question.

_Can you lie in Parsseltongue?"_

_"Yess."_

This was turning out considerably worse than the first prophecy.


	9. Chapter 9

**6/13/11 7:01 AM EDT**

"Who's Dinah?" asks Taylor. Lisa's body language, as I am now capable of recognizing, indicates that she would prefer I not elaborate on this remark. However, no explicit request was made.

"She is a twelve-year-old parahuman."

"And she doesn't want to work for Coil?"

"No."

"Why does she?"

"She is incapable of leaving, and she cannot tolerate what happens if she does not work." Interestingly, the expression on Taylor's face somehow reminds me of the sensation I experience at the sight of capes with the vile shards. I wonder if this is more than a coincidence.

"What... what happens if she doesn't do her work?"

"Coil will deny her substances that she desires."

"Food?"

"No."

"Water?"

"No."

"Drugs," Lisa says. "He's got her doped up, and she gets hit with withdrawal if he withholds them from her. She calls them 'candy.'"

I sense the likelihood of a conflict increasing with each word Tattletale says. Peculiarly, this causes me a mix of pleasure and discomfort.

Taylor's ensuing verbalizations are difficult to comprehend, as I am at least familiar enough with conventional human interactions to assume she is not discussing a new variant of sapients with solid human excrement in place of their heads. I am forced to use my power, but it draws my attention elsewhere, to the myriad of conflicts nearby. The concentration of such has recently increased dramatically, for some reason.

I update Taylor on the forces Coil has at his disposal, with exacting descriptions of their powers. I am about to leave, but she begins a final line of inquiry, concerning one of Coil's minions who is in the near vicinity.

"Is it true that Coil threatened Tattletale into working for him?" Taylor asks, keeping her gaze on the other girl.

"Yes," I answer.

"How?"

I use my power. "Several methods. He used the threat of death to initiate her employment." The likelihood of immediate, proximate conflict, decreases somewhat. This distracts me enough to cease my speech, attempting to deduce the source of this change.

"What else did he do?" asks Taylor, in slightly different tone.

"He tortures her regularly," I respond. Both of them react to this revelation, and the prospect of imminent, nearby conflict decreases dramatically.

It is Lisa who asks the next question. "What are you talking about?"

I have enough experience now to find something unsettling about this question. Why would she inquire about something which happened to her? Nevertheless, I answer, using both my power and my new knowledge to build an informative statement.

"Beginning approximately two weeks ago, concommittent with the Marquis incident, Coil reevaluated his risk and reward estimates, concluding that regular enhanced interrogations of his subordinates would improve his position. He engages in this activity at various opportune moments, usually terminating the subject afterwards." It is the longest coherent sentence I have spoken, and I feel something akin to pride.

Taylor is apparently less impressed, for she is completely silent, now. Lisa asks another question.

"_Terminating? _You mean-"

"Execution."

She stares, and then, I sense an increase in comprehension. "This happens in the alternate timelines he runs."

"Yes."

"How many times has he done this to me? Who else has he done it to?"

"You have died six times at his hands," I reply. "He performs similar actions with all of the Undersiders, all but one of the Travelers, all of the other capes who serve him, as well as most of his non-parahuman subordinates, though in the latter case such incidents are less frequent." As I relay this information, the likelihood of a conflict, slightly further in the future, increases.

I realize that she was not aware of her previous deaths. Could it be that she, and by extension, humans in general, are unaware of even the closest alternate realities?

"I thought his power let him shut down the timeline?" she asks. After I affirm this, she continues, "Then, why does he kill his target at the end?" I sense she has a good idea of the answer, in spite of her question.

"To do so provides him with considerable pleasure."

I soon find myself recounting various such incidents, describing the participants, as well as the acts of death and pain to which they are subjected. I recount how he pits members of the same team against each other in contests to the death, thus determining precisely which members of each team would turn on the others, and which would not. I describe the latter as only one of Coil's motivations in doing this, the other, of course, being the considerable satisfaction he derived from the begging, screaming, and dying groans of the participants.

I finally leave after they formulate a plan, with the odds of a large, immediate conflict higher than ever.

* * *

**6/13/11 7:30 AM EDT**

I set out to traverse the Atlantic, leaping over Europe. There is one more target given by Kevin Norton which I have not yet dealt with.

The expanse of Siberia contains few humans, and even fewer with substantial metabolic activity. I hone in on one of the latter, an individual who Kevin Norton refers to as 'The Sleeper.' I enter his domain, feeling the breach of a certain kind of field, after which I devote half an hour to fighting him vigorously, before I subsume his body in golden light, eliminating every trace of him I can detect.

I fly away, preparing to cross the Pacific in pursuit of a significant battle. After I have traveled a certain distance, I perceive the Sleeper again, waving goodbye.

* * *

**6/13/11 9:57 PM EDT**

I return to Brockton Bay, noting the significant decrease in population. In my human form, I notice I attract less attention than under normal circumstances, with most individuals nearby fleeing in a direction opposite my own trajectory.

I stop at the sight of a familiar cape. Taylor appears different, somehow. Particularly, her skull and much of her bone structure seems to have changed unusually, she appears to be present in several locations in the city simultaneously. I begin to wonder if my power is experiencing more technical issues.

Taylor smiles, although there is none of the friendliness which one would commonly associate with this expression. She opens her mouth to speak.


	10. Chapter 10

**6/14/11 10:04 PM EDT**

Taylor's behavior only grows stranger with the passage of time. I stop answering only as I notice both the cost of using my power and consequences of my actions are beginning to affect my lifespan.

"What, you're not g-gonna talk?" she asks. "Y-your autism m-makin' you f-freeze up?"

No," I reply. Taylor doesn't respond, or pause to relay her answer to her master, as before. She collapses, her anatomy unable to bear the strain of her poorly distributed bones. As she dies, she issues a command.

"Go to Noelle."

Having nothing better to do, I amble over to the position of this familiar cape.

She is a few blocks away, surrounded by legions of capes. Too late, I notice that the potential actions I can take which will not restrict my lifespan have drastically decreased in number.

There is a considerable amount of activity in the near vicinity, with numerous capes trading blows with those generated by 'Noelle's' power. The girl turns her enormous body to face me.

"Do you know how to fix me?" she asks.

The list of successful actions is small enough that I use my power to its maximum extent, analyzing her usage of the word 'fix.'

"Yes," I reply.

She waits expectantly, with screams and crunching noises filling the background.

"Are you going to wait all day or tell me?" she bellows.

"Tell you." I reply.

She waits for me to reply, becoming angrier by the moment.

"HOW?" she finally asks.

"There are several methods by which it may be accomplished."

She stomps in fury before calming herself. Finally, she devises a response.

"Do or say whatever you need to do to fix me IMMEDIATELY!"

I move forward, towards one of her vomiting mouths, my actions guided by my power. It takes every bit of effort I can muster, as the presence of some of her capes, the 'Eidolons' seems to be taxing my abilities merely by being present. Putting one of my hands on her rough skin; I access the shard to which she is connected.

It is dead, and contacting it is revolting. But I press on, finally severing the connection. Noelle is returned to a body which complies with her idea of being fixed, and the massive lower body to which she was attached begins to convulse and die. Noelle is injured by these movements. I myself make a hasty retreat, and the army of Eidolons lead the more stable clones away. Some of the others appear to be resorting to suicide tactics, many of them dismembering themselves upon a barrier of time-stopped spider silk protecting a group of heroes.

I return moments later, in my golden form, to wipe out those clones which remain.

* * *

**Interlude: David**

**6/14/11 11:11 PM EDT**

The grim silence is almost complete, broken only by the occasional sobs of one of the Travelers. All of them, conscious or otherwise, are restrained with Dragon-collars. All of them lie facedown in the ruined street, weapons drawn and aimed at them from all fronts.

That they would be executed ought to be without question; the fall of the Birdcage rendered imprisonment of dangerous capes an impossibility. It hadn't been done for one reason.

_Him._

Well, not him, but a copy. One of the dozens of copies Noelle had managed to spit out. Eidolon had hoped to die, or finally boost his powers; it looked like Noelle would be doing both today. Her ability had spiked considerably, shortly after she'd swallowed him. By all accounts she'd seemed omniscient, commanding her minions so as to perfectly counter assault after assault. Perhaps she'd somehow devised a method of restoring her body? Fortunately she didn't seem to have retained control of her clones afterward.

Unfortunately, the clones seem to have done enough damage without even lifting a finger. Some of the Eidolons, it seemed, had divulged information about, among other things, Cauldron.

At this point, if he were to be honest, he would welcome death. He failed even when it came to containing the Birdcage breakout; for someone who went there willingly, Glaistig Uaine _really _didn't want to go back. Worse, she somehow knew about his powers. Now of course, having this information blared across the world was the least of his worries.

Alexandria's arguments aren't working. But a precog power Eidolon chooses suggests that they will survive this encounter. As he sees the faces of numerous precogs in the crowd slacken, he realizes this may not be a good thing.

Dragon's pronouncement of an Endbringer attack does not surprise him. The fact that two have materialized at once does.

* * *

**Interlude: Weld**

**6/14/2011 11:30 PM EDT**

He looks like Eidolon, but he's _off. _In his appearance, of course, but also personality-wise. Granted, Weld hadn't worked much with the Protectorate's most powerful cape, but from what he'd seen of him in the Leviathan fight, he wasn't quite as talkative as this.

Weld hopes he's way off with what he's saying, too.

"We created your kind," he says. "And yes, I mean you freaks. We changed you, and your memories. Sometimes we'd sell you off to someone needing an enemy, but mostly once we found we had no use for you we'd just chuck you into the garbage, where you belonged." Eidolon smiles as he says this, the visible portion of his oddly elongated face alight with real pleasure.

_He's messing with me,_ Weld thought. _Trying to get me to... to what?_

On the one hand, who could prosecute Eidolon, in spite of his confession to crimes on a massive scale? But Weld couldn't think of any good reason for the hooded man to tell him, or anyone, any of this. It was as if Eidolon was trying to cause as much chaos as possible.

"I'm not going to take your bait," Weld replies as calmly as possible. The others, he knew, should be at his position soon, though most of them have no idea what's going on. From what Weld can work out, Eidolon is officially in Brockton Bay, not too far south of here, on classified business. "I know I can't beat you." Rumors had been spreading on the boards like wildfire. An organization called Cauldron, responsible for monsters. For the endbringers? It would explain why a new one had emerged. That the Triumvirate was embroiled in the mess was another rumor.

"No tricks here, tin man," Eidolon says easily. The hooded hero is far more casual than Weld had ever seen him. "Just thought ya oughta know." His grin widens. "Ah, the main event."

For a moment, Weld is struck with horror. Then he realizes that it can't possibly be the Simurgh; she has the proportions of a normal human woman. Nor is her face as artificial, she seems desperate, flailing, jabbing at Eidolon from a distance.

Eidolon gestures, and she slams face-first into the ground. Then she rises, her motion artificial, like a puppet. Eidolon looks at Weld expectantly, then scowls.

"Pathetic," he says. The pseudo-Simurgh collapses, shuddering, and Eidolon flies off. Weld approachs her.

"Please don't," she manages to gurgle out. He hadn't consciously realized he was moving to try to finish her off until she'd said it.

* * *

**Interlude: Fortuna**

**?, ?**

"No," Contessa reminds the Doctor. "I can predict Eidolon well enough, but he's technically immune to my power. And there's no way I can model these clones."

"I see," she murmurs. "Although, in some ways, this exceeds our wildest expectations. We always wanted another Eidolon.."

Contessa tunes out the Doctor's blather, even though she should at least point out that the destruction of the world seemed almost as likely at the hands of this swarm, whose powers, now spread across the world, effectively render her's useless, at least on Earth Bet. Doormaker will not create portals for them, but they have, it seems, all or part of the original's memories.

The Eidolons know where the base is. At least one of them will probably be able call up an interdimensional travel power.

Cauldron had done terrible things, to try and save just a bit of humanity. And now it looks like Scion will have nothing to destroy but a bunch of parallel, lifeless rocks.

* * *

**6/14/2011 11:26 AM IST**

It is an odd coincidence that Taylor, Lisa, and in fact, nearly all of my human associates are traveling towards the city I would have arrived at in any case. There are, it seems, multiple endbringers attacking simultaneously. It is not clear to me which I should strike at first, so I decide to comply with my human-origin instincts and _go with the flow._ As we descend on New Delhi, I contemplate that fighting and killing the newer endbringer will take a certain amount of time, since it can teleport freely. Based on the limited damage I can inflict on it while simultaneously obeying the order to help people, and the flightspeed of my golden form which is known to humanity at large, it will take approximately one hundred and forty four years to kill it.

I simulate attention to the speech Taylor is giving my human form, while I contemplate the total time it will take to kill off the other 19 or twenty. A pressing question, as nearly all of them are either active or nearing deployment.


	11. Chapter 11

**6/14/2011 11:40 AM IST**

* * *

Heeding my power, I transform, forcing my out of the craft without disrupting its structure. I blast Behemoth into the sky, firing repeatedly as he attempts to redirect his momentum. The battle is one-sided and short, ending as I dissolve the construct's core in golden light.

I rejoin the group I arrived with, transforming back.

Judging by the reactions of those nearby, something is amiss.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: So, there have been a number of revisions to this story. Some of the material has been rearranged, so as to make the story flow better. Some of it has been looked at by a beta, with the aim of increasing clarity. Also to that end, the interludes are now all in the third person, and dates and times now preface each segment. Finally, there have been various little rewrites here and there. **

**6/14/2011 11:41 AM IST**

* * *

The response which follows is anomalous enough for me to double check my power. When it informs me that this is indeed the optimal course of action for maximizing my remaining lifespan, I remember with more than a trace of concern that there have been multiple discrepancies between my power's verdicts and reality as I perceive it through other methods.

Many bystanders, who previously observed my battle in awe, now turned their phones towards me, attempting to document me just as frequently as they did moments ago.

The reaction from my erstwhile companions is more muted, with some exceptions. Tattletale seems to be attempting a vocalization, but the incoming information from her shard's analysis of my golden form bombarding her brain appears to have caused her to enter a kind of temporary stasis.

Those members of New Wave and the Undersiders who are present are divided in their reactions: about half are gaping, the other half, mumbling or stammering incoherently. Taylor, on the other hand, has had her hand placed on her forehead for thirty seconds now.

Taylor is the first to speak to me, her expression indicating a certain degree of exasperation.

"We have a lot of work to do."

**6/14/2011 11:52 AM IST**

The questions which follow do not reduce my lifespan, though giving similar answers would have done so at several points previously.

Legions of capes flit back and forth throughout a network of portals I have created, executing a variety of tasks based on information I have dispersed. Another set of portals has been forged, based on my analysis of the potential path of Khonsu, the teleporting endbringer. This set-up will decrease the latter's lifespan substantially.

"Just a few more questions," begins the one called Chevalier. "When can we expect the next Endbringer attack?"

There are too many controllers now for me to give an accurate answer without considerable effort. But by now, I can provide a satisfactory answer using my knowledge alone. "They will all be released over the course of the next few weeks."

The visible reactions to my pronouncements has diminished considerably over the past few minutes, though their import has only increased. Those listening barely seem phased. "How many are there?"

"Twenty, in total." Twenty living, that is.

Many minds have been assembled to ask me questions, though most do so remotely, through interrogators such as Chevalier and Revel. Through their probing, they find information of use, such as descriptions of the Endbringers and their abilities.

One question has a simple answer: "Is there a way to stop the Endbringer attacks without killing them?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"Incapacitate all those accessing the shard controlling the Endbringers."

A number of questions arise at once, asking for names, locations, numbers. The first I can give easily.

"You call them Eidolons."

There is a brief interval, after which one unresisting Eidolon is brought before me. "To be clear," asks one of them. "Killing him will decrease their attack rate?"

"No." I reply. After their next confused barrage, I provide additional requested information: "He is sufficiently incapacitated at present, as a result of an extreme shock he suffered." Another question. "He may self terminate, or descend to a near catatonic state." Even his future is easier to read as a result of his new state.

I perform more actions upon request, minimizing the probability of further eruptions due to the local Eidolon. Some questions concerning his motive have arisen. These are harder to answer, but similar inquiries about the organization to which he belongs, Cauldron, are less taxing on my power.

"Their goal is to kill me," I say, triggering several instinctive movements amongst the capes present. I describe in some detail the measures they have taken for this purpose. The line of questioning reverts to the Endbringers, a more pressing line of questioning to the capes present. My power tells me, however, that it is the previous topic which is crucial, one way or the other, with regard to my lifespan. As they build a final plan towards an assault on the Eidolons' domain, I plot my own course.

Most of the Cauldron members nearby were not aware of their organization's purpose, including the one called Legend. I inform my questioners of that particular fact at an opportune moment.

"Will it increase our odds of success to have him along?" asks Chevalier.

"Yes," I reply. In fact, I find, it will increase my chances as well.

Even this does not quell all of the objections to Legend's presence.

"Will his help reduce our casualties?"

"Yes," I say, on the advice of my power. It will, technically, have an impact on the death rate. I keep the fact that it is my survival which will be most affected to myself.

"And Alexandria?" asks another cape.

"She was aware of both the activities of her organization and its true purpose."

Alexandria has long since fled, and a number of capes begin to plot their pursuit. "Where is she?" asks Miss Militia, who is one these.

The complex response is carefully constructed. "It will be suboptimal for you to pursue her, for she is at their headquarters. I will deal with her myself."

They are satisfied and somewhat intimidated. My power strongly suggests that I should dismantle the organization personally, without allowing other capes entry. I devote part of my efforts to this even now, fighting against a mysterious shard seeking to carve out a path of escape for Cauldron. Many of the rank and file are scattering. Some of it is the result of panicked defection, but I see that much of it is in fact a calculated response, a desperation tactic. A scattering of dead shards, to obfuscate their escape.

A year ago, it might have worked.

With preparations for my own key battle laid out, my power devises a final stratagem for the benefit of the assembled capes, involving a well placed portal and Phir Se.


	13. Chapter 13

**Interlude: Chevalier**

**6/14/2011 12:34 PM IST**

The craft begins to rise, with the rest of the assault fleet. There is still work to be done, even on the way, but Chevalier takes a moment to pause, listening to the nearby conversation.

"We've prepared all we can. There's nothing left but to pray for victory," says Dispatch.

"Well, he's at the front, isn't he? Just go ask him," replies his companion, a cape from another region.

He glares. "Let's not do this now," replies the member of the Houston Protectorate.

For years, Chevalier reflects, Scion had seemed like a deity, albeit more like a Greco-Roman figure than the Abrahamic divinity. Apparently ageless, and intervening in human affairs positively but seemingly randomly, he was more a benevolent force of nature than the object of prayer. Having been part of the first known extended conversation with him only reinforced that impression to Chevalier.

They had abandoned the line of questioning due to the urgency of raising a force to wipe out the Eidolons, but Chevalier couldn't help but wonder why Cauldron would devote itself to killing Scion, why they would commit so many abominations to do so. The latter had been described by Scion in detail upon request, and the knowledge that the known Case 53s were the lucky ones did not put the organization in a more positive light. Their motives and behavior seemed to be that of a villain in a children's cartoon. At least they'd had the decency to lie to their members about their true goal.

Then again, Chevalier knows well enough the senseless savagery mankind was capable of. It wasn't too much to suppose that a few ultra-powerful capes working together could orchestrate a plot of such a scale without either being detected or forced to see that it was a spectacularly bad idea.

Or, perhaps, there is something amiss.

Legend had claimed ignorance of any deeper knowledge of Cauldron's aims, and sources from Tattletale to Scion had backed that up. Similar inquiries had been made of all those identified as Cauldron clients.

Personally, Chevalier isn't sure he'll ever trust any of them again. If someone like Legend could fool everyone, or be fooled…

Legend, and some others who were more than mere customers, did seem to think the organization's purpose was to prevent the end of the world. They'd had a schpiel which, it seemed, had been disseminated consistently amongst the motley group of Cauldron collaborators at their disposal.

Chevalier walks into a separate compartment of the Dragoncraft. He might not be able to depend on their word again, but there were, of course, alternative routes.

"And they didn't give any reason why?" asks Revel.

"No," replies Battery, dejectedly, "they just sent me that note. And I didn't have any time to act on it, for the record."

"And you didn't leave anything out about it, right?" inquires Tattletale. It wasn't a question she would normally ask, but with the possibility of Eidolon's passive abilities, which were more powerful than anyone could have imagined, interfering, she and all other information-gathering capes have to work as carefully as possible.

Battery glares. Revel hastily asks, "Did you ask them why?"

This causes the Cauldron client to shrink back. "No," she utters after a pause. "At that point, I just wanted to be done with them."

There was a silence, as they all registered Chevalier's presence.

"That's all, I think, unless the boss man has any questions," Tattletale says cheerfully.

Chevalier suppresses a glare of his own. It had been less that twenty four hours since they'd found out that a huge proportion of major forces for good in the world were really part of some sort of apocalyptic conspiracy.

"Battery," begins Chevalier. "Why did you join them in the first place?"

She tells a story similar to those he'd heard before. It wasn't so much that one joined Cauldron, it seemed. Instead, they had rather discrete methods of finding potential clients - though those aren't so secure anymore, he thought, feeling a slightly savage sense of satisfaction. The motives behind the buyers' initial goal were generally similar as well. Some wanted fame and/or fortune, or perhaps an escape from their mundane lives. Though he felt a certain sympathy for the ones who'd come to them as a last resort for medical reasons, Chevalier had to suppress a mixture of anger and contempt for those like Battery. He suspects his efforts towards this so far are insufficient, as the Cauldron customer looks visibly more nervous after finishing her answer, almost cringing, presumably aware of the inadequacy of her motives in light of the business the interdimensional slaving organization is involved with.

"Very well," he replies. "That will be all, Battery. Tattletale, if you could escort her back to her quarters?"

"Yessir," the blonde girl says, giving a mock salute. Chevalier and Revel watch the villainess turned heroine and Protectorate cape unmasked as an doomsday-group agent depart.

"She needs to learn some respect," Revel says.

"I agree. But, from what I've heard of her background, I can't say I don't get it. Her behavior, that is."

"The Protectorate requires a more professional attitude than that."

Chevalier looks surprised. "You're thinking of staying with the Protectorate?"

Revel blinks. "Sir?"

"After everything I've heard… You know it was Alexandria who conceived of it, right? By all accounts, she was one of their people, through and through." Alexandria… The one who'd brought him into the group herself. The one who'd found him, when he had almost gotten his revenge. Who had presented him with a choice, pontificating on the consequences of taking justice into one's own hands. Of crossing certain lines.

Looking back, it was an extraordinarily Freudian conversation.

"So you think the whole protectorate elite was behind it?"

"We confirmed that Hero, Legend, Eidolon and Alexandria were all Cauldron clients." Hero, apparently had been one of the very first. Hearing it from multiple sources was like a punch to the gut. But there was plenty more of that to go around today. "They started it. Even if Legend was too low-ranking to hear about their true motives, Alexandria, and probably Eidolon, were definitely up to their eyeballs in it."

"Controlling a huge organization of capes would probably be useful in any plan to assassinate Scion."

"Naturally," replies Chevalier dryly.

"Well.. I kind of think they might have had other goals, too. I mean, what use would Jack Slash be against Scion?"

"What do you mean?" asks Chevalier. He'd heard the 'Eidolon report,' as some called it, but he'd assumed it had only meant Cauldron was particularly indifferent to the motives of its clients.

"You didn't overhear it? That was the last order Battery got from Cauldron. They sent her a note saying that she had to ensure Jack Slash and the Siberian made it out of Brockton Bay."

Chevalier keeps silent for more than a moment. "I'd like to know who gave that order."

"I mean, the Siberian would make sense, if there was anyone who could do it, it'd be her, seeing as she… well, uh.."

"She killed Hero, and gouged out Alexandria's eye." As he finishes her sentence, he is struck again by the sense that he is missing something. Yes, Alexandria is an actress par excellence, so perhaps she could have staged the fight… But sacrificing one of their own? Or maybe Hero really didn't know the whole story. Maybe, he rebelled, and they eliminated him? It is an oddly comforting thought.

"I can't.. even conceive that it could all be staged.."

"Or that Eidolon created the Endbringers?" he asks.

"Well, it does seem unbelievable."

"If he could do that, I don't think we can put anything past them." Anything, like orchestrating a massive conspiracy, wrapping their tentacles around countless major capes, good and evil alike. Actually, the more he thought about it, killing Scion seemed to fit in well with a possible motive he hadn't yet considered. If they actually controlled the Endbringers, maybe there wouldn't have been a real apocalypse. Experts had always noted that the creatures had never fought seriously, and moreover, did so in a manner that seemed to invite challenge by local capes.

If those battles, which had killed so many, were really fixed…

They control - or did control, just about everything of importance, Scion being the most prominent exception. Once they got him out of the way, Cauldron would rule the world. Would they have bothered with the skullduggery and behind-the-scenes methods they'd used in the past, or would they have ruled openly? They certainly had the strength for the latter option.

Had, of course, is the operative word. Chevalier does not intend to be the acting leader of an organization with this many skeletons in its closet for any longer than was necessary, but as long as the Protectorate's capes follow him, he will work to thwart Cauldron. As long as Scion was alive, there was a chance that the coming doom, whatever it truly was, could be averted.


	14. Chapter 14

6/15/2011 12:12 AM EDT

I deliver a finishing blow to a rogue Eidolon as another, the single one which now fights against the rest, engages more. It is clear that this battle will be a short one. I had doubted the efficacy of my power in light of recent events, however, it seems to have functioned , as I perceive the interference which these Eidolons are capable of inflicting upon my powers, I realize that they are most likely the lifespan-reducing threat against which my abilities have been preparing recently..

Though I am surrounded by them, and mounting a pitched battle against them, I find myself better able to control my revulsion towards them than ever. When I stop to really look at them, to observe them closely, I can see some unusual features.

They are unquestionably distinct from ordinary capes. Although each is only directly connected to one shard, they are able to access and utilize abilities derived from mechanism by which they do this the strikingly familiar. There is a certain pleasure and crushing them, but is tempered by an unusual sensation of melancholy.

Enough of them have died such that my predictive powers have begun to function with some efficiency. I can see the battle will not last much longer.

Consistent with my previous assumption, I no longer feel any of my powers devoted to self-preservation hoisting new strategies upon me. This is rather unusual however, since I have just finished assuring a number of humans that I would engage in a rather serious conflict personally. I investigate the impact of not following through on my promise on my lifespan.

There is a reduction, but far less than I would have assumed. I make similar inquiries regarding the impact of following through on my efforts to combat the so-called Endbringers, only four of which are presently answer reveals that my choices regarding this course of action would affect me even less.

After following my power rigidly for so long, I take pleasure in this new-found freedom.

Perhaps it is this pleasant sensation which causes me to experience little, if any discomfort as the final Eidolon comes into my presence. He is flanked by senior members of two human organizations, the Protectorate and the Thanda.

In the past, I have paid little attention to these groups, but I brief myself on them now. My power, unusually helpful, offers a side-by-side comparison of the two.

The Protectorate operates openly, though it serves the purpose of its founders in secret. The Thanda works in the shadows, but it's true aims are well known, if only via rumors, as far as the general human population is concerned.

Neither of them threaten me either. In fact, they offer me assistance, though I see it will be meager and laden with too many drawbacks to be of use. Instead, I lie to them about my need to recuperate, and disappear.

6/15/2011 9:05 AM EDT

Although my human form is no longer truly secret, a concerted effort on the part of the capes present has worked to limit the number of individuals who are cognizant of the link between that identity and that of Scion. Thus, I loiter unmolested in the headquarters of the Brockton Bay Protectorate.

This building will not retain its identity for long; nearly all nearby sapients are calling for some manner of modifications to the organization currently controlling it. A number of interlopers arguing for such changes have entered the building. One of them deploys her minions to covertly search the building; upon detecting me, she moves to seek me out.

"S-Z-, I mean, Greg," Taylor begins. "What are you doing here? Khonsu's still on the loose!"

It takes me a moment to place the unfamiliar name; it refers to the latest endbringer, a creature capable of teleporting across the planet with ease.

I try to express the mixture of sensations I have been experiencing. The necessary words are surprisingly succinct. "I am tired. And lazy." I pause. "And bored"

Taylor stares, her face conveying shock and horror. "What? Why?"

That one interrogative again. "I don't understand."

"You- you don't understand why?"

"Yes." Sensing her bafflement, I add, "I have never comprehended that question word."

She steps back with an unreadable expression. Then she says, carefully, "What, then, do you think about when you do things? Like, when you were fighting Behemoth?"

The concept of thinking, as she articulates it, refers to the work of several shards, several powers of mine, which accomplish in separation activity analogous to that of the human brain, as I discover with a light application of my abilities. "I was trying to survive."

"If Khonsu continues his attack, none of us are going to stand a chance!"

"No. My odds of survival are higher if I don't engage that Endbringer." I have not in fact made a decision as to following through with Kevin Norton's command, but as I discuss the matter, I feel myself inching towards choosing not to fight it. The sensation from not following my power's orders rigidly is… elating.

"Gr-Scion," she begins, but stops. "I guess after all these years of saving the world, you're tired of it?"

I think about it. "That statement is consistent with reality."

"Then.. is there some way I, or anybody else, could take out Khonsu?"

I ask the question myself, and transmit the strange answer.

"Take Eidolon to a therapist."

Interlude: Phir Se

6/15/2011 10:46 PM IST

He had prepared all his life for the previous day. From the moment he'd gotten his powers, he had desired nothing more than to purify the world of the filth in which it was slaked. The temporal nature of his abilities seemed to offer a tantalizingly trivial method of accomplishing this. However, he had learned very early on that his skills would not allow for any chronological crusading.

As such, he had been forced to resort to cruder measures.

He'd been prepared to sacrifice everything for one final attempt at stopping the First. But it had proved unnecessary. After decades of seemingly charging down a death spiral, the world had, entirely unexpectedly, taken a turn for the better.

Indeed, this new series of developments was almost suspicious in its auspiciousness. A Scion who no longer dropped in and out of human affairs like a forgetful gardener with neglected plants. The collapse of much of the corruption which infected capes worldwide. To top it off, Khonsu, the latest Endbringer which seemed almost built to rain on the parade of an active Scion by virtue of its teleport ability, had apparently fallen dormant in Beijing, where it was not causing any further damage aside from obstructing a considerable amount of traffic.

He had retreated to the safety of his compound to take stock of the situation, only for one of his intruder alarms to trigger shortly after.

Were his sentries out partying? He curses internally, but before he can prepare, the intruder reveals himself. It is the one who, just a day ago, had asked for and received the assistance of his bomb.

Scion stood, as expressionless as ever. But while he had radiated tension just the other day, the pseudo-aura surrounding him now is muddled, difficult to read. The golden man spoke.

"I require your assistance."


End file.
